


Love, Bound

by CrazyPierrsonMan



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyPierrsonMan/pseuds/CrazyPierrsonMan
Summary: Pierre's pride and love of artifacts causes these beloved treasure hunters for hire to lose a job. Larson has been fed up with him all day--especially due to their unresolved sexual tension. Where will arousal and aggravation take our favorite couple?
Relationships: Larson Conway/Pierre DuPont
Kudos: 3





	Love, Bound

**Author's Note:**

> It's been two years since my last Pierrson fic but I can't let y'all go hungry. Here, have some idiots trying to do some spur of the moment bondage.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Dupont, Mr. Conway, I’m so glad you could make it,” she said warmly, beckoning them closer to the counter. Larson walked forward with a small smile, eyes squarely fixed on their prospective client, while Pierre’s eyes roved across the items neatly displayed throughout the shop.

“ _Oui,_ Madame Ruan,” Pierre responded, reluctantly focusing his eyes on the woman. “It is nice to see you as well. Your shop is most impressive.”

“Oh please, Monsieur Dupont, you can call me Sharona. Aren’t we about the same age?”

“Aw, shucks, ma’am,” Larson shrugged, “I’d have pegged you fer about 30 years old. Ya can’t be past 50 like my old ball ‘n chain here.” Smirking, he elbowed Pierre in the arm; Pierre shot him a scowl in return.

“This aside,” Pierre interjected, “Would you tell me about the artifact you seek?”

“Oh yes, yes,” Sharona replied, straightening her short black hair behind her ear, “You see, antiquing isn’t the hobby it used to be. They’d come from all around to see my ‘exotic mystical shop,’ only to be disappointed when they found the person running it was a quite modern Chinese-American expatriate.”

Larson nodded knowingly, at the same time registering how Pierre’s attention was unfocused, his shoulders flexing with barely-contained giddiness. It’s a trait he usually loved his husband for, but it unsettled Larson in a way his comparatively simpler mind couldn’t quite put a name to. Crossing his arms, he pushed himself to finish listening to Sharona’s story.

“...is why I want the Crystal of Mammon. I consider myself an economical-minded woman, but I’m willing to just about meet the asking price, give or take a few hundred—Monsieur Dupont?”

Pierre snapped his attention back on Sharona, blinking wildly. “Madame?” he responded blankly.

Larson rolled his eyes, shifting his weight onto one foot. At the same time, Sharona giggled, and straightened a lock of her hair that didn’t need straightening.

“You seem to be very fascinated with what I have for sale,” she stated. “Care to take a look? I won’t do a trade, but I can put an item on hold and perhaps give a discount… _if_ you return with the Crystal.”

Coming from out behind the counter, Sharona beckoned the men to follow as she began to walk across the shop. As if entranced, Pierre obeyed, absently reaching into his back pocket to tap his wallet.

Larson trudged after him, calling, “We ain’t got the room at our flat, Boss,” only to be met with a glare shot by Pierre.

With each collectible they passed, Sharona grew prouder. The corners of her lips curled upward as she told stories about how she came to acquire each item, thrusting her chin up vainly as her brow raised in satisfaction. Gold figures, old painted portraits, classic jewelry, and at last a collection of watches and other clocks. It was here that Pierre stopped in his tracks, staring at a gilded Art Nouveau desk clock. The time was frozen at 12:35.

Crossing her arms, Sharona approached Pierre and canted her hips.

“See something you like, Monsieur Dupont?”

Pierre remained silently transfixed.

“This one’s tale ended sadly. It just stopped one day, and I’m frankly terrified of opening the little door on the bottom to fix it up. It’s not worth as much anymore because of that, but I’m hoping it’d make a centerpiece…” she trailed off.

“Ah, I—” Pierre began. Clearing his throat, he turned to face Sharona, snapping his hands behind his back. “This is something I can do for you, I believe,” he continued. “Worry not, madame, I can repair this and prove my capability.”

Pierre had already grabbed the clock and wiggled the service panel open before she could respond. Larson gaped at this; in his husband, impulsiveness like this was rare but not uncharacteristic. The last time Pierre had acted like this upon seeing an artifact was several years ago. The memory was faint, but he wracked his brain as he tried to recall how he should mitigate the situation.

“Boss,” Larson called.

Pierre had braced the clock between his legs and was fiddling about with its innards as Sharona wrung her hands.

“Frenchie,” Larson intoned.

Pierre was yanking on something inside the clock with his index finger and thumb.

“Pierre!” Larson exclaimed, startling Pierre and causing him to drop the clock on the ground with a loud _thunk!_ Sharona squealed as if it was her head that fell.

“ _Mon dieu!_ ” he shouted, rushing to pick the item up. “Larson, _idiot,_ I could have destroyed this priceless piece! What could you possibly need? Ah?!”

Larson furrowed his brow, and responded, “Put the damn thing down, man. It ain’t yers. C’mon, let’s just get the commission ‘n go home.”

Pierre scoffed. “Why have you acted this way? You are angry from the choice of restaurant from lunch, _oui?_ ”

Sharona stopped wringing her hands and stepped back, keeping herself away from the impending lovers’ quarrel, all the while keeping an eye on her clock.

“I told you I don’t care where we ate as long as we picked a goddamn place to eat!” Larson shouted, “I just don’t want you to break that fancy paperweight! Put the thing down and—”

“Listen and listen now, Larson,” Pierre began, cradling the clock under his left arm and pointing at Larson with his right. “You do not question me. Have we not discussed this? This is the third time today. I do not want to hear it again! _Comprends?_ ”

Larson stared for a moment, then sighed, bowing his head and raising his hands deferentially.

“On yer head be it,” he acquiesced, taking a step back.

Pierre smugly turned his attention back to the inside of the clock. Sharona and Larson exchanged glances, her dark eyes full of worry and his hazel eyes full of anger and apology. A few moments later and Pierre cried, “Aha!”

The clock began to fall apart shortly after.

Sharona screeched as Pierre’s eyes went wide, and she rushed over to scoop the clock out of his hands. Hot tears ran down her face as the gears and springs began to drop onto the floor, the antique permanently destroyed.

“ _N-non_ —I didn’t intend— _c’est ma faute, je suis navré, madame, je suis_ —”

“ _Get out!”_ Sharona howled. “ _Leave, you vagrant bastard!”_

For a few seconds more, Pierre attempted to sputter more apologies in mixed English and French before Larson yanked his arm and dragged him out of the shop, leaving Sharona Ruan collapsed on her knees, sobbing as she plucked pieces of metal off of the carpet.

***

On the drive home, they argued.

“I was _attempting_ to salvage the situation!”

In the lobby, they argued.

“And I’ll say it again: you were just gonna wind up breakin’ more of her shit!”

In the lift—much to the annoyance of the other tenants—they argued.

“When was the last time _you_ found us a client, _andouille? Bête comme ses pieds!_ ”

In the hall back to their flat, they argued.

“At least have the balls to insult me in a language I hundred-percent understand!”

And in the flat proper…

“Slice it any way you like; near as I can tell, we lost out on good money ‘cause of yer damn pride!” Larson retaliated, marching away from the door and Pierre.

Pierre slammed the door shut behind him. “Ah, yes, my _pride_. What a trouble! It is, after all, the only thing that has gotten us this far.” He advanced on Larson and continued, “It has led us astray but this once!”

Larson turned around and rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as he stepped to the side.

“Just the once?” he jeered. “What about the car crash in Rome? We were payin’ that off fer a _long_ time. Or that time there couldn’ta _possibly_ been a trap back in Brazil ‘n we nearly went head-first into a spike pit? Or ought I bring up the microwave incident?”

Arms tensed at his sides, Pierre rushed up to Larson, craning his head up to stare into his husband’s eyes.

“I have told you numerous times…” He took a deep breath, and continued. “Do _not_ question me. Or,” he paused, cocking his head, “Do you have better ideas rattling around that empty head?”

To punctuate the ridicule, he jabbed Larson on the forehead. Larson grabbed the offending hand and firmly wrenched it down at Pierre’s side.

“Just ‘cause I talk a different way ‘n didn’t go to no fancy university don’t mean I’m empty-headed!” he exclaimed.

It was Pierre’s turn to roll his eyes. “At times, I wonder,” he spat dryly.

In the next instant, Larson shoved Pierre on the couch behind them, bracing his arms on either side of him, glowering above with wild eyes.

For a moment, just a brief glimmer, Pierre wondered if Larson was going to hurt him. It passed quickly, of course; they had been together for years at this point. Pierre trusted his husband, his one and only love. Still, the truth of the matter stood: Larson was taller, bulkier, more muscular than him… just what was he going to do next?

A heartbeat, then another as they continued to stare into each other’s eyes. Pierre, still curious, began a silent, motionless search for his husband’s emotions. It was then he realized that, more than anger, he could see longing. It struck him harder than any physical pain could have: it had been too long since they had last truly, passionately made love.

It was then that Larson himself could see the regret in Pierre’s eyes, and desperate pleading. He sighed roughly, hot minty breath caressing Pierre’s cheeks and goatee.

“Pierre,” Larson stated evenly.

“Larson,” Pierre gasped.

“Y’know what yer problem is?” Larson asked.

Pierre remained silent.

“Yer in charge too damn much lately,” Larson concluded.

Pierre nodded, lips parting slightly.

Another moment of silence passed, and Larson spoke again.

“So now,” he informed his husband, “yer gonna be my bitch.”

Pierre exhaled slowly, nodding as he felt his cock growing stiff in his pants.

“Take off yer clothes,” Larson stated, pulling away from the couch. Pierre began obediently tugging at his shoes, then socks. As he unbuttoned his shirt, Larson took a step back.

“Keep the jock on. I know yer wearin’ one.”

Gazing back into his lover’s eyes, Pierre unbuckled his belt and dropped it on the side of the couch. Unbuttoning and unzipping, he lifted himself off the seat to remove his trousers. He had an obvious tent in his jock strap, stretching the pouch to the material’s capacity. Precum was already pooling at the spot where the head of his dick lay trapped.

Larson grinned. He leaned back down over his husband, kicking his shoes out of the way. Cupping Pierre’s cheek in one hand, Larson slipped his thumb into Pierre’s mouth; without instruction, Pierre ran his tongue across it, sucking at it gently.

“Now,” Larson sighed, “I’m gon’ go into the supply closet ‘n get some rope. You’d better be a good fuckin’ boy fer me and stay still, else I’m gon’ have to bruise that ass.”

Pierre nodded a few times as Larson withdrew his hand. After staring for a moment or two, Larson decided he was pleased with his lover’s compliance and turned away from the living room, down the hall toward the closet.

Pierre sat very still anticipating Larson’s return. Slowly, quietly, he reached down between the cushions and gripped the side of the one he sat on. It had been a long time, years in fact since Larson had truly taken control of their sex life. Certainly he’d been rough at Pierre’s request, but Pierre was unsure of the last time Larson independently asserted his dominance—unless doing the helicopter counted. It was intensely arousing and even with it still yet to begin proper, Pierre eagerly realized that this should’ve happened much sooner.

Heavy footsteps approached, and Pierre snapped his gaze at the end of the hall. His cock ached, and he desperately fought the urge to reach down and free it from the confines of its pouch. He wanted nothing more than to stroke it with abandon, but he managed to stand firm, obeying per Larson’s warning. Mustering his willpower, he concentrated on awaiting his lover’s return.

And sure enough, Larson emerged, clad in nothing but his boots and a leather cowboy hat. His half-hard cock jutted out from his golden bush, dick bouncing gently as he stepped back into the living room. As promised, he had brought rope in one hand, and held the white and green polka dot boxer-briefs he’d worn today in the other.

Pierre couldn’t stop his nose from crinkling, and blurted out, “Uhh, Larson—” he began.

In response, Larson sharply narrowed his eyes.

“Um,” Pierre stuttered as he continued, “while I have much appreciation for this getup, your boots will soil the carpet—”

Larson took a big step forward and lifted his chin, training his eyes on Pierre.

“Thought I told you to hush up,” he snarled.

Pierre gulped, shrinking back a little.

“The carpet ain’t important right now,” Larson asserted. “ _Comprends?_ ”

Pierre nodded slowly, noting Larson’s pointed use of French, digging his hands deeper into the couch. He stole a glance at Larson’s cock, which had stiffened harder since he’d last seen it, and he clenched his jaw shut to stop himself from dashing off the couch to open wide and fervently lap at the head of his captor’s dick.

Seeing this, Larson smirked, but it was not unkind; part of him wanted the same thing, just a quick fuck, pound out Pierre’s aggression and return to their normal routine. But though he couldn’t articulate it, deep down he knew that they both needed something more.

Thrusting his chin down, his lips parted as he spoke to his captive.

“Down on the floor,” Larson commanded. “On your knees. _Don’t_ rub yer bulge.”

Finding his way off the couch, Pierre slid forward, lowering himself as instructed. He shuffled forward on his knees, away from where he was seated. He looked up then, staring at Larson’s face. He noted the cowboy hat and clenching his fists, desperately staving off a desire to grab at his cock through his jock strap.

Larson crouched to meet Pierre face-to-face, dropping his underwear and the ropes—there were actually multiple, Pierre noted—onto the floor. He grabbed both of Pierre’s hands, shifting his arms behind his back and squeezing them firmly. Pierre’s eyes widened at the action; when the pair were out on jobs that required stealth, they often squeezed one another’s hands to indicate ‘stay still’ or ‘be quiet.’ Applying it to sex was a first, but the meaning remained the same, and so Pierre complied.

Picking up the longer rope, Larson looped it around his captive’s forearms, coiling the bindings securely, not too tight. Rope still in hand, he stepped around Pierre, kneeling now between his legs, leaning down to tie his arms together.

His wrists were next, tied together in rope of a smaller length, willingly giving his hands’ freedom. Idly, he wondered how Larson expected mutually satisfying sex when half of the participants could not move, but he swallowed his question as Larson steadied his left hand on his chest and pulled Pierre forward, balancing him on his knees.

Pierre gasped at this, shooting a nervous glance back at Larson. Larson paused momentarily, meeting brown eyes, his brow furrowing in concern. Pierre waited a moment and nodded, bringing his ankles together so Larson could continue. Larson took the remaining rope in his right hand and tied the last of his lover’s extremities together, gently lowering him back into a secure position.

Larson stood again and looked down into Pierre’s eyes, examining his bound, obedient lover. Moments turned into seconds, and Pierre found himself fidgeting in the silent suspense. He relaxed his fists, smoothing the hairs on his lower back with his fingertips. Swallowing harshly, he took the initiative to speak.

“What will you do with me?” his voice rang out. The tension breaking startled even himself, on some level.

Larson sneered, closing the gap between his crotch and Pierre’s face. Grasping his fully erect cock in hand, precum flowing freely from the tip, he roved his eyes down from Pierre’s torso to his treasure trail, settling his gaze on his lips.

“Now I know I told you to hush up, boy,” he responded. “If yer gonna keep fuckin’ yappin’ then maybe I gotta shut you up.”

Pierre said nothing as Larson pushed the head of his cock against his goatee and groaned quietly, smearing his precum into his facial hair. He pushed it up against his cheek and grabbed the back of Pierre’s head, fingers resting softly in the graying brown hair. Pierre closed his eyes, exhaling, blowing warm air against Larson’s erection.

“ _Fuck...”_ Larson muttered, grinding against Pierre’s lightly stubbled face. Pierre hadn’t had the time to line his goatee before they’d set out, and Larson found himself thankful for that. Despite the sensation, despite the power of dominance, he knew Pierre was enjoying this more than him, inhaling the scent of his hairy crotch, feeling the rigid flesh brush against his face. He wondered if Pierre would climax just from being used like this.

Pulling back slightly, he sunk his fingers into Pierre’s hair, grabbing roughly as he positioned his mouth directly against his cock. Rubbing his flowing precum against Pierre’s closed lips, he released his grip on his captive lover’s head.

“Open,” Larson commanded.

Taking a moment to lick Larson’s salty precum off his lips, Pierre obeyed.

“Lick,” Larson demanded.

Pierre wasted no time and stuck his tongue out, running the tip along Larson’s thick shaft. Flattening his tongue, he licked up and down and breathed deeply, cheeks flushing in excitement. Brushing back and forth across masculine, musky flesh, he worked his way up to the head and fervently licked it clean of the salty, savory fluid flowing freely.

Larson gave a small contented grin, slowly pushing the head past Pierre’s lips. Pierre closed his eyes and inhaled, holding his breath as Larson braced both big hands on the back of his head. Slowly, centimeter by centimeter, the thick cock of his captor was lodged down his throat, nose buried in soft golden hair. Sticking out his tongue, he gave a few calculated licks at the base of Larson’s shaft, the sensation of hairy balls sending hot waves from his tongue down to his achingly hard dick.

And then, Larson slowly pulled his cock away, the hairy length sliding out of Pierre’s wet mouth. He gasped for air and looked up at Larson, eyes wide yet not speaking a word. Larson’s brow flattened as he tried to understand what his captive was trying to tell him. Though he had gotten better, he still struggled with silent body language, and so he made his best guess.

“Damn,” Larson began, “Always thankful for how ya lost yer gag reflex.”

Pierre chuckled in response, licking his lips.

“You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. Yer such a good little bitch,” Larson continued, gliding down his left hand to gently rub Pierre’s cheek.

Pierre said nothing more and opened his mouth again. Larson once more placed his hand alongside his other, sinking his fingers into Pierre’s soft hair again, and roughly shoved his cock inside, watching it glide in and out past Pierre’s lips, seeing his nose repeatedly collide with blond pubes, saliva dripping down into his goatee until he choked from breathlessness.

Larson pulled Pierre’s face all the way off his crotch and gazed down at him wordlessly, lust clouding his eyes as his captive inhaled deeply through his nose a few times. Larson opened his mouth to ask if he was OK, but instead he groaned as Pierre wrapped his lips around his dick’s head again.

“Fuck—stop, _stop,_ ” he commanded. Pierre instantly pulled away and looked up, raising his eyebrow slightly. Larson took a step back, summoning all of his courage so as not to stumble. Clearing his throat, he spoke again.

“Looks like you, my li’l target, enjoyed that a mite too much,” he began.

Pierre couldn’t help but smile wickedly at that.

Larson continued, “Ain’t much of a punishment if cock shoved down yer throat makes ya happy. I think I gotta _really_ punish you for bein’ an asshole earlier.”

With a somewhat hoarse voice, Pierre replied, “And how would you do this?”

Closing the distance between them, Larson crouched down in front of Pierre again, grabbing something off the ground next to him. “Well baby,” he began, “I won’t be too mean. Since you like the taste of my dick so much I’m gon’ give you a present.”

In saying this, Larson raised his polka dot boxer-briefs he’d dropped earlier, waving them a little in Pierre’s face. Taking them in both hands, he started to fumble with them, not seeming to grasp the concept of whatever he was trying to do.

Concerned, Pierre cleared his throat, and evened his tone to a gentle one. “Uh, Larson,” he began, but snapped his mouth shut again after witnessing Larson react by crossing his brow.

After a few minutes passed, it became apparent that Larson was trying, and had at last succeeded to turn his underwear inside out. “Hell yeah,” he muttered, holding them by the waistband. He pushed the crotch into Pierre’s nose, knowing the scent would drive his captive wild.

“Whad’ya think, huh?” Larson began, smiling triumphantly. “Who needs poppers when my balls smell _this_ good?”

Pierre took a good whiff and groaned audibly, saying no intelligible words.

“Open yer mouth again,” Larson stated. Pierre hesitantly obliged as Larson stuffed the crotch of his underwear into his mouth, the salty taste of his musk grazing his tongue and filling his nostrils.

“Don’t you go spittin’ ‘em out, now,” Larson warned as he stood himself up, bracing his hands on Pierre’s shoulders. Sliding his fingers down, he hooked his hands under Pierre’s armpits and hoisted him off the floor. Turning around, he sat himself on the couch, bringing Pierre down with him.

Pierre cried out through the gag and bit down, sucking out some of the scent of Larson’s musk still lingering on the fabric. His legs were hoisted up onto the couch, then flipped over on his front, the soaked fabric of his jock strap pouch bumping just right against Larson’s cock. Larson sighed and adjusted his cowboy hat, resting a palm on Pierre’s ass.

“Bad boys,” Larson declared, “need punished.”

_Thwack!_

Pierre squealed and squirmed as his captor’s palm made contact with his ass cheeks.

_Thwack!_

Pierre groaned as his bulge rubbed against Larson’s cock again.

_Thwack!_

Larson smirked as he watched his lover’s skin redden as the spanking continued. And Pierre’s erection did not waver once.

Rubbing the battered buttocks gently with his left hand, Larson sucked on on his right middle finger then raised it, jabbing between Pierre’s cheeks. Spreading them apart to see the pink hairy hole between, he groaned and spit on it before pushing his finger back in again.

“Y’ain’t very tight back here…” Larson trailed off. “Well, yeah, tighter than _usual,_ sure,” he continued, “but I’m reckonin’ you’ve been playin’ with yer ass. Who you thinkin’ of? You thinkin’ of gettin’ bred by me? You thinkin’ of me whorin’ you out, maybe? Sharin’ you like a little slut?”

He tossed a glance over to Pierre, who earnestly nodded his head. Larson felt an urge to ask if he was just going along with it for the sake of this game they were playing—because the alternative, that he really did want to service many men, made Larson’s cock twitch—but the notion passed and instead, he lifted his French Kisser’s legs and slid down to the other end of the couch. He rose above Pierre’s thighs and placed his head next to his ass, spreading the red cheeks and diving his tongue deep inside.

Pierre moaned through his gag and tried to glance back at Larson, only able to see part of his husband before his ass was forced in the air. Larson wasted no time in stroking Pierre’s bulge, rubbing the wet, sticky fabric as he licked and sucked at his captive’s hole. Pierre cried out in a symphony of tortuous pleasure, unable to will himself to stop bucking his ass back onto a stubbled face.

All too soon, it seemed, the captor withdrew his hands, then pulled his face away, the ministrations ceasing. Pierre panted heavily, the boxer-briefs in his mouth soaked with saliva from his deranged moans and grunts, and barely registered that Larson had sat up on his knees, starting to work again at the rope at his feet. Something felt different; he realized he could feel his ankles relax, falling away from one another.

“...Ya think yer OK to slide onto the floor?” Larson asked, unable to hide the worry in his voice.

“Mmph,” Pierre responded.

“What?” Larson wondered, scratching the back of his neck.

“ _Mmph!_ ” Pierre repeated, casting his gaze at Larson.

“Pierre, I can’t—” Larson began, adjusting his hat.

A moment passed.

“ _Riiight,_ ” Larson blurted out, standing up off the couch. Bending down, he reached over and pulled the gag out of Pierre’s mouth.

Pierre opened wide, sticking out his tongue involuntarily as he flexed his jaw.

Another moment passed. Larson tossed his wet underwear aside, and half-expected Pierre to make another sassy remark.

“Will you please fuck me, Sir?” asked Pierre, his eyes full and wide.

Larson was gobsmacked, not quite knowing how to respond. He thought he’d have to straight-up fuck Pierre into submission before they were done today, but there he was, his haughty, high-and-mighty husband politely begging for a cock in the ass.

Clearing his throat, Larson grinned cheekily, and excitedly replied, “Why baby, I thought you’d never ask.”

Pierre needed no instruction for what came next. Sliding one foot to the floor, he began to shift his body off the sofa, dragging his chest across the cushions. Larson steadied him by grabbing under his armpits again, helping his captive stand, his arms still bound around his back. Tipping up his hat, he leaned close and kissed Pierre gently on the lips, which he took the initiative to deepen, their tongues brushing against one another as their chests collided. Pierre distantly noted that they were both a little sweaty.

The tenderness came to an end, however; they weren’t yet finished—something that, on a primal level, Pierre could plainly tell. As they parted, Pierre licked his lips and nodded. Larson stepped aside as Pierre shuffled forward a step and crouched down, settling his left knee on the ground, then his right. Burying his face in the carpet, he arched his back so as to present his ass to his captor, knowing he needed what he was about to give.

Larson wasted no time in getting on his knees behind Pierre, lining up to him, his cock brushing against Pierre’s wet, stretched-out hole. He thrust forward, rubbing against Pierre, sliding between his cheeks, smearing his precum across the ass that would forever belong to him. Pierre sighed, trying to keep the irritation from his tone, pressing himself back against Larson in anticipation.

“Well now,” Larson muttered, just low enough for Pierre to hear, “I’d say you’re a ready slut, ain’t ya?”

“Please,” Pierre begged.

Taking his hairy dick in hand, Larson slowly watched his length disappear into Pierre’s hole, and Pierre’s lower back tensed as he moaned loudly and unabashedly. Larson groaned as his dick vanished yet again within his wanton husband, so eager for him, so willing for him, and _begging._

He found himself fully inside a familiar tight heat, slick with spit and precum and all his to claim, _always_ his to claim. Bracing both his hands on Pierre’s ass, he slowly retreated and entered again, this time a little more roughly.

“ _Bon sang!_ ” Pierre swore, and felt a fresh hand print branding his ass redder still for it.

And then Larson began his assault in earnest.

Gripping Pierre’s hips tightly, he pulled his hips back as he thrust deep inside over and over, mercilessly and cruelly, and Pierre found himself loving every fucking _second_ of it.

“ _Ah, s_ _’il vous plait !_ _Oh, Larson_ _! Mon dieu!_ ” he moaned.

“Ahh! Ahh! I can’t take it—it’s too good! Ohh, _ohhhh!_ ” he shouted.

“I’m so sorry, oh Larson, oh Sir, please! G _ive it to me!_ ” he begged.

Larson said nothing in response. He listened to the sweet music of his captive driven mad by lust, fucking Pierre like a machine intent on breaking him. He watched Pierre’s shoulders convulse, his hands tighten into fists and relax moments later, his back arch as he tried to thrust his ass back as it was pulled in time with Larson’s own thrusts. And of course, he kept resting his eyes back on his bare cock pistoning in and out of his captive’s willing ass.

He bit his lip, sneering as he thought of the tension between them, thinking of how Pierre just needed to plumb _let go_ some times, thinking of how much he loved him and how he himself was close, so close, so needy, that he couldn’t hold it back anymore and—

Larson grunted between his closed lips, opening them instinctively, moaning as he arched his back and his cum flowed freely into Pierre’s ass who, on his end, was deliriously begging: “Yes! Yes, oh, oh Larson, breed me— _oh, ohhhh… pleeeease, Sir…”_

Larson found himself doubled over Pierre, his cowboy hat having fallen off his head, panting hot breaths wildly into Pierre’s ear, his arms wrapped tight around his arms and chest. Save the deep, husky breaths shared between the pair, there was silence.

And then Larson flattened his right palm on the floor, raising himself off of Pierre with a grunt, pulling out his half-hard, cum-soaked cock. With his left arm, he flipped his captive over, resting him on his back—his asshole no doubt staining their carpet with Larson’s seed—and yanked down his jock strap. There was no longer a need to tease or waste time. Lowering his head to his husband’s ever-leaking cock, he pressed his lips against his foreskin, pulling it away from the head beneath, and swallowed his length whole.

Bobbing back up, he swirled his tongue around the tip of Pierre’s dick and shortly found his reward: creamy cum blasting to the back of his throat, the dessert he’d been so desperate to have since before they’d even left the house that afternoon. Pierre, meanwhile, found himself groaning, lifting his ass off the floor to ensure every last drop of his seed was swallowed.

The ever persistent silence took hold again. Larson sat up, unable to look Pierre in the face. Using his tied arms as leverage, Pierre sat up himself, noting with some chagrin that Larson’s load had definitely leaked out of his ass and onto the carpet.

“ _Merci,_ ” Pierre stated, and cleared his throat.

Larson found he couldn’t directly face Pierre, but nonetheless hazel eyes shifted to look into brown.

“I must apologize to you, _mon amour,_ ” Pierre continued, a snobby smile spreading across his lips. “I tell you your ideas are poor, yet you come up with such brilliance. Forgive me,” he offered.

Turning his head, Larson returned Pierre’s smile with a smaller one, sheepish and sad.

“May be true, Boss,” he began, shrugging his shoulders, “but I really oughtn’t have shoved ya. It weren’t kind, y’know?”

Pierre cocked his head. “I fell on the couch. I was not hurt, ah? Merely… surprised,” he replied indifferently. “Let us discuss things more in the future, _oui?”_

Just as Larson opened his mouth to respond, the phone rang. He looked over at Pierre, who quickly nodded upward twice, and so Larson stood to pick up the receiver.

“Hello?” came the soft voice from the other end of the line. “It’s Sharona from the Ruan Emporium. Is Monsieur Dupont available?”

Blinking, Larson suppressed an urge to clear his throat.

“Uh,” he began, “he’s a bit tied up at the moment,” and in saying this he cast a glance over at Pierre, still bound as he sat on the floor. “This’s Mr. Conway. What can I do ya fer, ma’am?”

“Well, you see,” Sharona began, “I finally stopped beating around the bush and took the clock to an… er, _associate_ of mine. The clock is indeed quite broken beyond repair, but the metal inside is a rare alloy of tungsten and silver. I can make a decent little sum, probably more than I would’ve gotten for the clock itself.”

Upon hearing the news, Larson nodded, trying—as Pierre had taught him some time ago—to hold in his sigh of relief.

“I would like to extend an olive branch to Monsieur Dupont; you two can still take the job. Come down to the antiques store tomorrow and we’ll go over the details again… _provided_ you can get your husband to keep his mitts off my inventory,” she giggled, though to Larson she didn’t sound very amused.

“It’s a done deal,” he agreed. “You have a nice day now, ma’am, y’hear?”

He hung up and set the phone down again, making his way back toward Pierre.

“Sharona said we got the job!” Larson exclaimed, shooting his fist into the air.

Pierre smiled wide, straightening is back and guffawing.

“ _Très excellent !_ ” he cried. “Now, _mon amour,”_ he interjected, “if we are quite done, would you remove my restraints…?”

Smirking, Larson shook his head, his fist lowering to his side. “Oh no, boy. We’ve gotta celebrate this new job. I think I wanna try a blindfold next; lemme go get one of yer ties...”


End file.
